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Buddy Guy and Quinn Sullivan

I saw blues magnate Buddy Guy for the first time in 2002, in a small Connecticut concert hall. In an attempt at outreach, the theater donated free tickets to my infamously troubled high school, and since I was convinced that The Blues mirrored my inner state of adolescent tumult, I took advantage of the handout. I had no idea who Guy was—my dad listened to really terrible music when I was growing up—but when he emerged in a shimmering purple one-piece outfit and wailed on his Telecaster for over three hours, I knew I'd never forget. I've seen him since, and if there is even such a thing as a "prime," Guy has not yet passed it. He's still wailing hard as always, sometimes for President Obama, and on this night, for Portland. RAQUEL NASSER